


distance

by au_spice



Category: Durarara!!
Genre: Anal Sex, Bad Dirty Talk, Breathplay, Burnplay, Character Death In Dream, Confinement, Crying, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Gags, Gore, Gunplay, Homophobic Language, Hurt No Comfort, I Tried, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Implied/Referenced Torture, Kidnapping, Knifeplay, Light Angst, M/M, Mental Instability, Mindfuck, Non-Consensual Bondage, Non-Consensual Oral Sex, One-Sided Attraction, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Physical Abuse, Possibly Unrequited Love, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Psychological Trauma, Rape/Non-con Elements, Rope Bondage, Self-Hatred, Sensory Deprivation, Suicidal Thoughts, Torture, Violence, Waterboarding, dw shizuo doesnt rape anyone in this one tho, god complex if you squint, im sorry, lots of cying, shizaya if you squint, this is why we cant have nice things, why am i like this
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-14
Updated: 2018-08-19
Packaged: 2018-09-24 09:36:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,225
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9715649
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/au_spice/pseuds/au_spice
Summary: Every action has a consequence. It just happens that either karma can’t do its job properly or Izaya Orihara’s consequence is very much delayed, slowly snowballing into one terrible, terrible, catastrophe waiting to happen.





	1. distance.

Every action has a consequence. It just happens that either karma can’t do its job properly or Izaya Orihara’s consequence is very much delayed, slowly snowballing into one terrible, terrible, catastrophe waiting to happen.

The informant is stopped to the side of the streets of Ikebukuro—the black jacket he _always_ wears is draped around his shoulders, but it isn’t enough to protect him from the freezing temperatures of winter. He can feel the goosebumps on his skin, but he ignores it, too used to the cold to care. At this hour, most stores are closed and the only illumination is street lights and the bright lights of love hotels, but he doesn’t need a source of light to guide him; he knows this city like the back of his hand. When a monster like Shizuo chases you around enough, you really get to know everything—from the twists and turns of the streets to the back alleys that are dim enough that you can go unnoticed to the best hiding places for ambush—none of it goes unnoticed. Not by Izaya, anyway. Ikebukuro is his playground.

His movements are fluid, smooth as though well rehearsed. The meeting place he and his client designated over the phone is a place he’s familiar with. His steps have a certain hop to them, graceful and agile. Concealed in his jacket close to his body is a manila envelope containing vital information. It’s a careless method of transferring information, but Izaya Orihara wouldn’t have it any other way.

Footsteps resound in his wake, interrupting his pace as he notices that they are not timed with his movements and therefore belong to another. He is unfazed, used to people approaching him while he’s on the job. Izaya whirls around, a knowing smirk on his face. “Gentlemen, isn’t it a little too cliched for you to attack me from behind?”

No response.

There are two people in front of him and both of them have yellow cloth tied around the lower halves of their faces. Izaya would assume that they are Yellow Scarves, but their faces show more years than even the oldest of the color gang would have. Someone he left behind on bad terms, perhaps? Unlikely. His hand casually places itself at his pocket where he keeps his trusty switchblade and he flicks it out, only revealing a brief flash of silver but doing little else to show it. A threatening look crosses his assailant’s faces and he, a mischievous glint in his eyes. He steps back and glides to the side to narrowly evade a swing that would’ve, without a doubt, would’ve knocked him out if he hadn’t dodged it. He isn’t too caught off guard; Shizuo is worse.

What Izaya isn’t expecting is a hand coming out of the sewers and catching him by his ankles, tripping him as he moves. A good amount of color drains from his face when he tries to regain his footing, but it’s difficult to do so when he’s being crowded by many larger than him. Ordinarily, this wouldn’t be much of a problem given his agility, but his mobility is restricted. Clicking his tongue, the raven-haired male snaps out his switchblade and slices the chest of one of his aggressors successfully, gritting his teeth as he rips the serrated edge out of flesh. He doesn’t care for the blood staining his wonderful jacket; his priorities lie in fleeing—and his attempts at doing so don’t seem like they’re working all too well. Fighting back only serves to anger his scarved assailants further. He rips his ankle out of the hand’s grip and stomps on it, leaping backwards.

Izaya quickly realizes that he didn’t account for the possibility of something behind him when his back hits a wall—more specifically, a barrier of warm muscle. His mouth is suddenly muffled by a white cloth and his wrists pushed behind his back, forced to the ground. From the way his consciousness is beginning to waver, he can assume that the cloth has been doused with chloroform—how cliched. Izaya squirms uselessly in the hold his foes have on him. His vision is already blurring when he falls limp, his weapon seized before he is hauled into the trunk of a white van parked into an alley.

-

He wakes up with his wrists and ankles bound together, his clothes torn off and replaced with rags. The floor is smooth but solid and his temples ache slightly. There’s a blindfold tied onto him, making it difficult to discern any details about the room. It feels like rot, mildew, and he has to breathe in stale air.

“Izaya Orihara.” The words command authority that whoever they came from doesn’t have. No matter how intimidating the voice is, he refuses to flinch in the slightest. Whatever dignity he has left will not allow him to do so.

A playful but forced smile makes it way onto his face, a bead of sweat rolling down the side of his pale face. “That’s my name, don’t wear it out.”

There is a pause before the same voice replies. “Playing it cool? You won’t be for long.”

His captor’s words make the hairs on the back of Izaya’s neck stand straight up and he furrows his eyebrows. The familiar cold of metal presses against the side of his head, but there’s something specific about the blade (the way that its edge is shaped, the feel of the handle) that is _too_ familiar.

They’re using his own fucking knife to do all this.

 _Rip_.

The cut up blindfold falls into the informant’s lap and his eyes squint at the sudden influx of light, his wrists beginning to ache from the rope. Whoever did it clearly isn’t an expert at it. Even though there were about five people attacking him, there is only three in the room with him. From the way one is positioned directly in front of him with the two others on standby farther away, Izaya presumes that the one speaking to him is the ringleader of all of this. The man, who he’s decided to call “Specs” from the pair of sunglasses resting on the bridge of his nose, towers over him as though trying to exert some form of power that clearly isn’t working. His build is broad and Izaya immediately recognizes him as the man who he bumped into.

“I wouldn’t exactly call it playing cool, but whatever floats your boat.”

Izaya leans back in his chair to survey the room and the moment his eyes leave Specs, he is kicked in the gut, pain blossoming in his stomach. He grimaces and curls inwards slightly, his cry of pain getting caught in his throat. He keeps his forced smirk.

“Shut up, Orihara.” The heel of Specs’ boot crashes down on the ground behind him and moves, rolling Izaya to his stomach and then pushing his face into the floor. The thin man chokes out a groan in pain as his cheek is gnashed into dirty cold stone, waiting for an opening. “Hey, got the brand?” He hears a low hiss behind him, undoubtedly the sound of metal being heated up.

 _This is how the filthiest of humans behave_ , he realizes, _though it’s nothing like what Shizu-chan does._ “So what are you doing this for?”

“You don’t remember, huh?” Another bruising kick. “Figured you wouldn’t. You don’t need to know what you fucking did.”

Izaya fakes a grunt—lure Specs into a false sense of security and when it’s time, destroy it. He doesn’t say anything, conceiving of plans that won’t work. It’s difficult to do much when the side of your face is being grinding into stone and at this point, Izaya can taste iron on his tongue.

“Man, you gotta be more discreet than that.” Specs says from above him. Someone is lifting the hem of Izaya’s shirt up, cold air brushing against his skin promptly replaced with heat that gets warmer and warmer and doesn’t stop until it’s _searing_ pain. Izaya cries out at the pain when the brand presses against his skin and it’s held there for a good few seconds before gliding over his sweltering skin slightly and then coming off. Explosions of color dance across his vision, fading in and out and melding together to form hues he’s never seen before and that’s all he can see as his body shakes uncontrollably and his skin _burns_.

“Poor Orihara.” Specs pouts from above him mockingly. Izaya stifles a sarcastic chuckle, imagining every little way he can kill Specs and his henchmen had his hands and feet not been bound.

That night, Izaya learns how to just lay there and take a beating, learns how to zone out even through intense pain to save energy for the next day until he finally loses consciousness.

He’s uncertain when he wakes up again, but he wakes up without pain, thoughts murky and groggier than usual. After a few moments of trying to collect himself, Izaya decides that they’ve likely drugged him. How fucking typical. Izaya’s wrists are tied to the bedpost and he knows too damn well what’s happening next - he’s had this done to enough people to know and he’s seen enough information files to know. What a great chance to test his own humanity.

Izaya tries to get as much sleep as possible but he’s restless, the uneasiness quickly dissolving into anxiety that eventually boils into determination out of his own shitty pride and delusions that he’s somehow higher than the lovely humans that forced him into captivity. Specs enters the room.

“Boy, are you composed.”

A smirk. “Yep.”

Specs’ expression turns into a frown as he approaches the bed. The mattress creaks under his weight. “With that pretty face, you must’ve had a cock in your mouth at one point, huh?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” Izaya hasn’t.

“Sure I would.” He can see Specs slip a Glock out of a holster at his waist. “Ever done it with a pistol pressed to your forehead?”

Specs has the head of his dick pressed against Izaya’s lips within record time and it’s only the cold feeling of a metal barrel pressing against his forehead that makes Izaya oblige and part his lips. He gags halfway down and the gun presses harder onto his face. Tears prick at the corner of his eyes.

Izaya’s throat feels raw when they’re done and his eyes are swollen with tears. He can’t even groan by the end of it and he’d probably be in pain if it weren’t for his good ol’ pal, drugs. His skin is sticky with cum and his legs are unbelievably bruised, ass aching. His chest heaves with labored breaths. As he tries to lull himself back to sleep, he can’t help but wonder what Mairu and Kururi are doing. How are the Yellow Scarves? The Dollars? He struggles to think of any other color gangs beyond the Dollars - his life in Ikebukuro seems like nothing but a distant memory, but when he thinks of names, one sticks out.

Shizu-chan.

Shizuo Heiwajima.

Monster.

Would this have been better if Shizuo were here instead? Izaya would be a senseless pile of gore by now if Shizu-chan had his hands on him. He doesn’t know how this is comforting, but it is.

Before Izaya loses his mind, he loses his gag reflex. Getting your face fucked many times a day does that and you stop caring when you’re pumped full of drugs almost an equal amount of times a day. It doesn’t take long before he just learns to space out, learns to stop wasting effort in trying to keep his cries of pain contained.

Izaya doesn’t know how long it’s been, but one of those days he remembers.

He is Izaya, the informant - not Izaya, the local cock warmer. He manipulated people and not the other way around and what else did he enjoy? Messing with monsters like Shizuo. He remembers the day Specs gives him his real name just so that he has something to scream every night but for him, Specs is Specs. Izaya doesn’t need a name and he’s so zoned out all the time that the name escapes him within the next hour. There is a single night where Specs has Izaya tied at his wrists and blindfolded, a knife digging into the man’s shoulder blade as his cock is buried into the informant, shirt sticking to his skin from sweat and their groans filling the silence present within the room. He rolls his hips just the right way - the angle that has Izaya screaming and snapping out of his trance.

“Shizu-” Izaya writhes around under the other’s weight, stifling heavy pants into his forearms, “Ah - Shizu-chan…”

His blood runs cold when he processes the words he blurted out, but before he can do anything, the knife at his shoulder is already pushing itself in and he screams louder, feeling crimson run down his arm.

“Screaming the names of other people while _I’m_ fucking you?” Specs grabs a fistful of his hair and forces his head down, which would hurt considerably if they weren’t on a mattress. Instead, Izaya is heaving lacking breaths as he’s suffocated by the mattress. “You got guts, Orihara.”

Warm metal slick with blood traces the base of Izaya’s cock and his muffled screams fall on deaf ears, nails carving crescent moons into his skin and raking along the fragile, paper white of his torso. Izaya doesn’t apologize, squeezes tears out of his shut eyes as he is beaten mercilessly.

The next day, Izaya is in an unbearable amount of pain as the painkillers slowly wear off and every little shift of his muscles brings a searing sensation. Despite the pain, he can think more clearly than he did before. His wrists aren’t bound anymore and in place of the rope is hot pink markings. Screw this shitty bondage S&M scenario he got himself in, he needs freedom - well, the bruises and cuts along his skin dictates that he needs not liberty but medical attention. If he keeps living like this, he’ll die. Not that he’s ever really valued his life, but watching over humans seems pretty interesting right about now.

When Izaya isn’t being fed stale bread and water ( _like a dirty peasant_ , Specs’ henchmen remark), he’s sleeping through his pain. When he isn’t unconscious, he’s being screwed, tortured, or both. He finds his escape through dreams.

In Izaya’s dreams, his body is unscarred and his hair is clean, beautiful. He is enjoying the wondrous sensation of fresh air, warm clothing against his skin, and blue skies with a boisterous crowd. In his fantasies, he resides in a concrete jungle called Ikebukuro - a land that is only a distant memory that he can barely picture. He hardly remembers the streets he used to navigate like a professional, the sidewalks that he pronounced himself as king of, and the people that used to dance around in the palm of his hand _beautifully_. He loved humans.

In his nightmares, he sees Shizuo. Only Shizuo.

Shizuo, a metal grip around Izaya’s throat and the life slowly being squeezed from him as he hangs senselessly from the monster’s grasp like a ragdoll.

Shizuo, bringing the tip of a metal pole crashing down on the side of Izaya’s head and splattering his brains across the floor while the informant is trying to weasel his way out of it without begging for mercy.

Shizuo, fucking Izaya’s eyes out while he is slowly dying from physical trauma.

Shizuo, laughing as a torch is tossed on Izaya’s skin, searing his flesh black as he burns.

Shizuo.

Every time he resurfaces into reality, Izaya pretends to be asleep for awhile until the torture starts again and one of the days he’s in captivity, he can hardly eavesdrop on a conversation between Specs and the one who branded him on his first day.

“You aren’t binding him?”

“He’s breaking anyway. Kinda pointless now.”

The rest of the conversation flows in a language that Izaya, surprisingly enough, does not understand. Is it German?

-

The day after (he thinks a day has passed - he counts every time he wakes up as a day because other than his sleeping schedule, he has no idea how to keep time), Izaya finally remembers.

Specs.

Takuya Kishihara - that’s Specs’ name. He remembers in the middle of beating when Specs quips, “I ought to sell your body parts to pay off the shitty debt _you_ caused.”

Izaya has caused plenty of people to go into debt, but it’s the way that Takuya’s face twists into a cruel smirk that causes him to remember the name - he remembers the way that the man ran away screaming threats when he confronted the informant about the misleading information he was given. None of the information was wrong, the guy was just stupid.

Stupidity is man’s downfall, but it happened to not be Specs’ but rather Izaya’s. How terrible.

“Guess you weren’t kidding about the threats.” Izaya greets coarsely when Specs comes in one day - probably a weekend because Izaya can hear birds chirping outside of the window. Specs is usually gone in the morning.

The other man tilts his head. “You thought I was?”

Izaya is quiet.

“So, now you know what you did.”

Stone motherfucking silence.

“Does it all make sense now?”

Izaya scoffs and tilts his head. “Isn’t all this?” He musters the strength to wave his arm, showing his scarred, bruised body. “Enough?”

“Isn’t years of debt quite…” Specs whips out a knife and Izaya has a hard time containing his fear. “Awful?”

By the end of it all, Izaya has not only cuts and bruises but also burns. He finds that his left side hurts the least and rolling onto his back to sleep brings agony that makes his vision go white. Shizuo eats him alive in his sleep and not in the good way. In the middle of the night he wakes up in pain and to the sound of loud, brash knocking. He crawls to the window and looks out of it and a pair of men are at the door. He can’t see much other than one dyed head of hair and all he can think is _Shizuo_ , _Shizuo_ , _Shizuo_. They leave with a suitcase of money.

Izaya collapses onto the floor, weak from malnutrition and blacks out as his head hits the carpet.

-

His dreams aren’t exactly pleasant, but he’s definitely had worse, and he doesn’t die this time. Dying would be a blessing. This time he’s being chased across the streets by a blond bartender ripping street signs out of the ground and throwing vending machines. Izaya is not intimidated by this. His body feels lighter than it ever has and he dodges the vending machines easily, laughs freely as Shizuo screams out, enunciating every syllable as though it were the monster’s last. “ _I-ZA-YA_.”

When people poke their heads out of buildings to investigate and passersby begin fleeing so they don’t get caught in the skirmish, Izaya just laughs even harder. They’re scared of the monster chasing him, but he isn’t. He remembers - he loves humans, no matter what filthy thing they might do. Shizuo does not count. Shizuo is a manbeast. Humans are beautiful and lovely. His captors are still human. He darts into an alley and Shizuo does not follow. Buildings around him begin to collapse in a flood of crumbling slate grey and he falls onto the ground.

-

When Izaya comes to, he is hanging from the ceiling in rope like a disco ball and there’s a tub of water ( _might be piss or something else disgusting_ , he reminds himself). His groans are muffled by a rag tied around the lower half of his face. More waterboarding? He’s had enough of that, really. Maybe they’ll finally drown him to death.

But no, he stays hanging there for what feels like hours. The minutes tick by, and his sense of time is probably too distorted for him to accurately tell how long it’s been. He just knows that it’s been long enough that he got bored and began looking at the knots. He’s been around for so long and Specs still can’t tie knots for shit. He finds a stray piece of rope in the knot that, when he pulls it, released the rope on his wrists. Fucking score. With his wrists free, Izaya untied the rest of himself, twisting his body upright as he freed his torso from the burn-inducing rope. He landed into the tub of water, but not enough to generate too big of a splash, and wiped his feet on the carpet before leaving the room he’d been imprisoned in for weeks on end. His legs stumbled and trembled as he moved, walking now being a very unfamiliar act for him. The man was more used to spreading his legs than actually using them at this point. But that aside, he is finally free.

He has no fear.

Izaya sees one of Specs’ friends down the hall and freezes, crimson gaze set upon the revolver in the man’s pocket.

He has one fear.

The guy turns around and pulls out his gun, keeping it low and pointed towards the ground. He clearly does not see Izaya as much of a threat, which is really a shame, because Izaya still has some muscle memory of what he learned on the streets.

“Aren’t you supposed to be in…” He gives the door Izaya came out of a sidelong glance. “That room?”

“What room?” Izaya smiles.

The man looks at the door again and Izaya takes the opportunity to burst forwards and sweep him off his feet, pushing him forwards and knocking the gun out of his hands. “Not today, my dear human.” He forces a smile onto his face even there’s hardly anything to smile about - other than the fact that he’s escaping. He doesn’t care too much, though, but it’d be nice if he did. Izaya then reaches for the gun and blows Specs’ friend’s face off, whistling as he slips the weapon into the rags he’s dressed in. When he reaches the front entrance of the flat, he feels a swift breeze blow by before losing consciousness, a hollow thud in his head. Izaya almost loses an eye that night - there is a fresh, gaping wound by his temple and large knife wounds gouged in both feet, now bandaged. While Izaya would like to say that he’s not discouraged in the slightest, he is. He longs to embrace the cool night air instead of a shitty springy mattress, face shoved into the bed in disgusting submission.

The amount of time he’s been there sufficed for figuring out Specs’ mindset, and he no longer has any interest in him, or so Izaya likes to say. Izaya likes to think that he’s still in control over the situation. He likes to think that he could get out whenever he wants to, though the injuries on his feet say otherwise. He’s long since gotten sick of the endless violating and pain, long since tired of being called a slut and other obscenities, long since started feeling a dull ache in his chest every time he thought of Ikebukuro, and worst of all - long since started yearning for the thrill he felt as Shizuo gave chase almost everyday, yearning for the way he felt so vigorous and full of life with every shout of his name and with every time he was an inch away from getting killed by an incoming vending machine - the way it felt as though he cheated death. Now, though, he is cheating death in the way that he’s been hanging one inch away from it constantly, an unpleasant and relentless sensation that _hurts_.

For the first time since his capture, Izaya starts crying. Sure, a few tears have slipped down his face, but before, it was reflex and just out of pain. This time, Izaya is not being beaten. He is not being raped. It is pure frustration and distress, a time bomb that had been ticking for an eternity finally going off - a dam that’d been slowly crumbling breaking and with the splintered wood, a flood of tears that will not cease. The sheets are bed with tears when Izaya finally stops, his shoulders shaking uncontrollably and his face flushed. His eyes hurt much like everything else. Right after that happens to be the first time he hates himself. He loathes himself for breaking so easily, for doing the exact same things he has mocked other humans for doing. He screams at himself, tells himself that he’s weak for cracking under such weak physical torture.  He tries to stop caring. He doesn’t need to react like this, doesn’t need to sit there and wallow in self-pity like others would, and he tells himself that he is stronger than that - Izaya Orihara is not weak. Izaya Orihara is human, but not a broken sex toy.

He doesn’t know when, but one of the following days, there is a knock at the door. He’s outside of the room that day, bound at the wrists and broken in the feet on the couch by the entrance of the flat. The knock on the door is loud, commanding, and Izaya flinches at the sound.

“Debt.” A voice yells from the other side of the door. “Don’t pretend you aren’t here, either. I saw you come in a little bit ago.”

Izaya’s screams are muffled by the gag crammed into his mouth, and he just tries and tries until his throat goes hoarse, but by then, Specs has already rammed his fist into Izaya’s face and told him to shut the fuck up. He only stops when a gun is pointed at his head but if it weren’t for the prospect of escape, he would have kept screaming in hopes that he _would_ die. He is left on the couch instead. When Specs is leaving the room, he looks in Izaya’s direction. “If you make a sound, I’m sawing off your limbs.”

He isn’t kidding - Izaya can tell from his grim demeanor, but when has that ever stopped Izaya? The ex-informant can hear Specs open the door and greet the debt collectors. The walls are thin, or the ones _within_ the house are. Izaya rolls onto the floor, staining the carpet with blood, gets on his knees and crawls as fast as he can. He ignores the sound of blood thrumming in his eardrums, fights against the instincts planted in him that yell at him to turn back and keep himself safe, tells himself that he won’t make it out without risks. Izaya finally makes it to the hallway, his eyes widening at his crimson gaze settles onto the open door as though it is a gate to heaven, because it is. The property is in the quiet side of Ikebukuro, a broken down neighborhood that no one touches because of the crime activity.

His eyes widen, not at the open door, but at what is _beyond_ it. Standing in the doorway is the two people he saw from what feels like a lifetime ago, a distant image that slipped away from his head just like every other memory from his life as an informant. His heart pounds, his hands slick with sweat and his skin reeking with the stench of sex, everything is bruised and ugly except for his face, but that’s a little messed up too. Specs tries to be careful with it because that’s supposedly Izaya’s only redeeming quality.

But that’s not true. Not with the way that the visitors look at him. They notice him a few minutes after he sees them.

One of them is Shizuo.

Izaya looks at the black and white-clad man as though he’s a mythical creature of some sorts - a legend. As though he’s only ever dreamed of Shizuo because from what he remembers, he only knows Shizuo. He remembers everything with the man in it, and it doesn’t take much to recognize the bleached locks of hair, the blue-tinted sunglasses, everything down to the not-so-subtle smell of cigarettes that he carries around. His broad shoulders, the bartender outfit. There is no way in hell that Izaya would not recognize him, and he knows that Shizuo recognizes him.

“Izaya?” The sound is foreign, softer than anything Izaya has ever heard Shizuo say. It’s hushed, quiet, but not kind. More surprised than anything. “What…”

Tom squints. “That’s Izaya? Sure doesn’t look like it.”

“Sure doesn’t.” Shizuo says. His eyes are wide and Izaya doesn’t know if he’s just caught off guard or pissed. He wants to say something but the gag forbids it.

Specs whirls around, barks a laugh as he hoists Izaya up by the arms, holds him close by the waist. A silver barrel presses itself into the man’s temple, cold like the winter night Izaya saw the night he was kidnapped. “You know him?”

Izaya’s eyes widen in a plead for help.

“Yeah.” Shizuo is no longer confounded, only angry. “Why the fuck is he here?”

“Shizuo.” The man beside him, a dark-skinned man with hair styled into dreadlocks, said. “Stop. We’re not here for this, we’re here for the debt.”

Specs’ hand began shaking, the gun at Izaya’s head trembling and pushing into his skin. “If you don’t leave, I’ll shoot.”

Shizuo remains silent as the one who Izaya assumed to be his coworker speaks, calm and composed. “We have no connections to him. Your threats are empty.”

“The look blondie has on his face says otherwise.” A click as the weapon is cocked. “I-i’ll… I’ll really do it! Don’t you care for his safety at all?”

“As a matter of fact.” Shizuo starts. His teeth grind against the white of his cigarette slowly. “I don’t care.”

Izaya’s eyes widen in surprise but then shrink back to their usual size. He wonders if Shizuo is lying, but what does he expect? _It’s Shizu-chan after all, and Shizu-chan is a monster. Everyone knows that._ He laughs into the cloth stuffed into his mouth, tilting his head as he gazes up at Shizuo as menacingly as he can with his bloodied and broken visage.

“Is that so?” Specs barks laughter, lowers his head to whisper into Izaya’s ear. “Even to the very end, you’re garbage.”

Izaya is stone-faced throughout it all, an empty bang ringing into his head as the trigger is pulled. He sees Shizuo’s face contort into surprise and worse of all, pity and sympathy. Almost as though apologizing.


	2. persisting.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Somewhere out there and in his head, there’s a world where Izaya is still being held captive. Where the knives kiss his flesh and lips press themselves to his skin not lovingly, but with the intention to leave marks. The acid drips onto fresh and closing wounds, reopening them and forcing his mouth open to stretch in a silent scream that catches in his throat. Burns, cuts, fists - they hurt all the same now.

The pistol goes off with a harrowing crackle in Izaya’s ear, and he waits for the pain, waits for his brains to get blown out and to splatter all over the adjacent wall. His biggest regret is the place he chose to let himself get killed. It’s a grungy smelly flat where someone he fucked over decided to kidnap him, hardly anywhere comfortable. His arms and legs ache, brutally bruised and beaten to the point where Izaya can’t really laugh it off and say he’s had worse because he honestly hasn’t.

Everything shitty about his situation pales in comparison to the fact that Shizuo is standing right there, eyes wide, and Izaya can’t really blame him. Shizuo probably came to collect debts and not witness a brutal murder - but then again, considering how much the guy fucking hates him, this might just be a bonus. He waits for the bullet to drill into his head, to finally end his suffering.

But nothing happens.

It’s a blank.

His captor drops him to the ground, and when he falls, he can still see Shizuo right there in the doorway. Shizuo, who was just watching and waiting for him to die the whole time Izaya had that handgun rested snug on his skull.

The man behind Izaya curses loudly as the informant hits the ground unconscious and all he can hear within the last of his waking moments is the sickening crunch of bone.

How unsightly.

-

When Shinra wakes up to his phone ringing in the middle of the night, the last thing he’s expecting is a disoriented Shizuo when he picks up, not that he would ever expect to think of Shizuo and disoriented in the same sentence, let alone experience it.

“It’s me.” Shizuo’s voice sounds muffled and shaken. “Is it alright if I come over right now?”

“You better have a good reason for waking me up at,” Shinra glances over his shoulder at the digital clock mounted on his bedside table. “1am.”

“Trust me, it’s a pretty damn good reason.”

“Don’t tell me you beat someone up again.”

“You’ll see,” comes the cryptic answer before Shizuo hangs up.

Half an hour passes and someone’s knocking at Shinra’s door. He gets up and looks through the peephole to find Shizuo carrying someone. It’s hard to discern any real details with the subpar, fogged up lens on the door, but Shinra can already see some nasty bruises on the guy and little else. The underground doctor opens the door finally. He’s seen some awful trauma, but this really takes the cake. He almost has to pinch himself to make sure that what he’s seeing isn’t a dream or a wild hallucination.

In Shizuo’s arms lays a crippled husk of a man who’s been through hell and back. His dark hair is matted with something (probably blood, notes Shinra) and his fair skin is gruesomely pebbled with varying hues of black and blue. Cuts, both fresh and healing, line his arms and legs, and it’s right then that Shinra knows that Shizuo didn’t do this. He swears that he can even spot a few rope burns here and there.

“You need to learn to control your strength.” Shinra jokes.

“I didn’t do this. Someone else did.” Shizuo’s tone is stone cold and grim, contrasting the lighthearted attitude of his friend.

Shinra knows better than to ask any questions. As Shizuo walks past him to place the limp body on the nearby couch, he finally gets a glimpse of the poor guy’s face. His eyes widen. “That’s Izaya?”

“I’m just as surprised as you.” The blond takes a step back. He glares at the unconscious body. “Shitty flea getting himself in trouble. Fucking inconvenience.”

“To be frank, I’m even more shocked that you didn’t leave him there to die.”

-

Somewhere out there and in his head, there’s a world where Izaya is still being held captive. Where the knives kiss his flesh and lips press themselves to his skin not lovingly, but with the intention to leave marks. The acid drips onto fresh and closing wounds, reopening them and forcing his mouth open to stretch in a silent scream that catches in his throat. Burns, cuts, fists - they hurt all the same now. He can still hear the taunting. He can still remember those hours he spent by himself in that dark, stuffy room shivering and dressed in nothing but rags. He remembers those nights where he was so heavily drugged that it felt like he was trying to listen through a soundproof wall half the time and everything felt _wonderfully numb_ because sometimes, he would rather be numb and senseless than feel anything at all.

But that’s not even the worst of it.

Izaya has always had miserable dreams.

-

He wakes up in a world of pain. In the back of Izaya’s mind, something screams for the drugs, and something else wishes that he had never woken up. He squeezes his eyes shut to sleep off the pain, but there’s too much of it and it’s _everywhere_. His arms, his legs, his back. His throat closes itself off before he can groan.

“Awake?”

It feels like it’s been years since he heard that voice. The informant cranes his head to look at Shinra, lets out a bitter laugh. “No, I’m dead.” _I wish I weren’t joking_ , Izaya adds to himself silently.

Shinra doesn’t laugh at his joke. After some silence, he finally says, “Your injuries are really something. Haven’t seen anything this bad in a while.”

“Shizu-chan must be disappointed.”

“You’d be surprised.” Shinra turns his head like he’s watching for someone, and lowers his voice, “He left work early to bring you here.”

“But he knows that I wouldn’t do the same for him. How touching.” Izaya snorts.

In that moment, Shizuo walks in from the hallway. Normally, Izaya would say something snarky or call him a monster, but he’s at a loss for words. He’s finally back in Ikebukuro, but it doesn’t quite feel like it. It feels like there’s something weighing him down, but he can’t label it as fear. He won’t. Izaya’s too strong to let this affect him.

Shizuo stops at the doorway, running a hand through bleached locks of hair. The monster stares, but doesn’t do anything else. In his eyes, Izaya can see pity and sadness. Being pitied is a foreign feeling that wrenches his gut and reminds him of everything wrong with the situation. They meet eyes, but Izaya drops his gaze to the ground and they’re both speechless. Shinra breaks the silence eventually, but there’s something about his voice that makes him sound restless and nervous. “It’s a miracle that neither of you want to kill each other yet.”

More silence.

“Tough crowd.” Shinra picks up some bags, and throws on a lab coat. “Well, as fun as this conversation is, I have work to do. Izaya, your injuries are pretty bad, but it’s nothing life-threatening for now. Call me if anything comes up. Can I trust you not to kill him, Shizuo?”

The lack of response from Shizuo is not promising.

“Shizuo?” Shinra asks again.

“Yeah.” The blond’s voice sounds oddly distant, but Shinra takes it anyway and leaves the room quickly, leaving the two alone.

Shizuo stands awkwardly, like he doesn’t know how to act around Izaya without tearing up anything in his immediate vicinity. Without anything else in mind to do, he starts heading towards the door. “I should leave, too.”

“Don’t.” The plead leaves Izaya’s throat before he even realizes it. It comes out strange, and for a second, Izaya doesn’t realize that he was the one who said it. The word sounds desperate and needy; panicked, anxious, and nothing like how the informant is used to hearing himself sound. Smoothly recovering from his slip up, Izaya says, “If my injuries worsen, there won’t be anyone to tell Shinra.”

The other man stops in his tracks and turns. He hesitates, and Izaya almost sees something unexpectedly human. He can’t really put a finger on it, but it’s not a look he’s used to getting from Shizuo. Usually, it’s pure rage or disgust. “Okay. But if you piss me off, I might just be the reason your injuries worsen.”

“Maybe that’s what I want.” Izaya drawls. He rolls onto his back, wincing at the pain. He traces patterns on the ceiling with his eyes but otherwise remains unmoving. His nemesis takes a seat by his bed. He repeats, almost as though he feared that Shizuo didn’t hear him the first time. “That’s what I want.”

“Be careful what you wish for.”

Izaya’s usual chuckle comes out as a coughing and wheezing that earns him a concerned look from the blond. It hurts. Maybe he’s been hit in the head a few too many times, but he’s almost starting to appreciate Shizuo’s company. “Hey, if it’s you, Shizu-chan, I wouldn’t mind.”

No reply. Shizuo’s eyes widen in surprise. “Izaya-”

“Why haven’t you beaten me up yet?” His voice starts to raise. Izaya can feel himself spiraling out of control and little parts of him tell himself, _no, this isn’t me_ but at this point, he’s just blurting out the first thing that comes to mind. He tells himself that it’s okay and he doesn’t have to run his words through a filter because Shizuo is a monster and words don’t matter to a monster. They’re meaningless. “You’re… You’re supposed to be a monster, Shizu-chan. Don’t you _hate_ me? Don’t you--don’t you want to _kill_ me?”

He glances at Shizuo and all he can see is pity. Izaya feels like he’s seconds away from breaking, and Shizuo has that look on his face that he puts on when he’s holding something fragile and he’s trying not to break it. It feels like Izaya’s going to lose it, it feels like his hold on himself is slipping away like quicksand through his fingers, and he’s powerless to stop it. His face burns, and his heart starts racing. He’s vulnerable and weak. He feels human, but all he wants to do is feel numb. His gaze is absent, bearing into nothing.

“Shizuo.”

For the first time in ages, Izaya says the other’s name fully. He enunciates each syllable. His hands shake visibly. He looks at Shizuo, grim and solemn. His lighthearted exterior shatters, and he’s on the verge of becoming a shaking and sobbing mess. His voice cracks.

“Why did you save me?”


	3. row.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which things are starting to look up for Izaya.

_ Why did you save me? _

The question echoes in Shizuo’s head after it’s asked and as much as he repeats the question in his head, fumbles through it like he’s turning it over in the palm of his hand and examining it, Shizuo can’t give an answer. It’s common sense, isn’t it? The sight of Izaya, all bruised and beaten halfway to death, comes back to mind. He can still feel the desperation he felt seeing that gun press against Izaya’s temple. Shizuo’s sure that he’s going bonkers, because he vaguely feels jealous and possessive recalling that moment. Something along the lines of  _ I’m the only one who can kill that flea, not you _ and  _ I should be the one who kills him _ . Then again, he supposes, killing Izaya would only prove the other’s point of him being a monster. The idea of proving Izaya even remotely correct leaves a sour taste in Shizuo’s mouth.

He looks down at the weakened informant and draws a pack of cigarettes from his pocket.

“I don’t know.” Shizuo finally replies. His tone is flat and empty. He tucks a cigarette and lets it hang between his lips, bringing a lighter up to it. The end glows like a firebug in a way that has Izaya wincing like the heat were being held right up to his scarred face. “It was impulsive, I guess. More of a reflex than anything. You looked like you needed the help.”

An obvious understatement. Izaya looks stunned, but it’s then replaced by his usual obnoxious smirk. He starts laughing. “I never expected you out of all people to take pity on me! Oh, Shizu-chan, this is rich. I thought you would have taken the gun and shot me yourself.”

“Your face was a lot less punchable in that moment.” Shizuo takes a drag on his cigarette and lowers it. “I doubt you would get it, but most people help others in need.”

“That’s what humans do,” Izaya’s smirk enlarges with every passing second, but Shizuo’s patience only gets thinner. “But you’re a little different, Shizu-chan. You hate my guts. And you still saved me. That’s what I don’t understand.”

“Maybe it didn’t feel right letting someone else kill you.”

And there it is. The remark slips out of his mouth before he can even think about it. Izaya’s smile disappears, and he takes a deep breath. His expression is complicated, but it’s oddly genuine. For a second, Shizuo isn’t completely positive that he’s talking to a sociopathic dickhead instead of someone marginally more respectable. “So, you just wanted the satisfaction of ending my life for yourself?”

“Something along the lines of that, yes.”

“Why don’t you just do it right now?” Something sparks in Izaya’s eyes, bringing a life to them that Shizuo hasn’t seen since before his disappearance. His gaze is challenging, daring.

“Something’s different.” 

_ (“you’re just a sad and broken husk of your former self.”) _

“I’m… Different?” Izaya seems offended. There’s a silence before he starts again, and just when it seems like he calmed down, he’s in hysterics once more. The informant talks fast, keeps stopping and going like his mouth can’t seem to keep up with his thoughts. “I’m still Izaya Orihara. I’m still - I’m still me. I ruined your life before and I won’t hesitate do it again. Do you think that just because I… I… Just because I got kidnapped and you saved me, I’m going to start acting like a saint to you? I didn’t come out of this  _ any  _ different. You hated me before, and I haven’t changed.  _ This _ ,” he gestures wildly at the injuries that colour his pale skin. “doesn’t affect me in any way--”

Or so he says, but Shizuo can’t help but notice the stuttering that makes Izaya sound like a broken record on repeat, the little cracks in his voice that occur every other sentence, how he can never seem to make eye contact for more than a split second.

“--In a month or two… Things will be just the way they were. My wounds will heal. You’re going to see me on the street, throw some stop signs or vending machines or whatever, and chase me. I’m going to run, and you’ll never catch me. You’ll tear up the streets trying to kill me, and I’ll laugh at you like the monster you are.”

Shizuo stiffens and crushes the cigarette in his hand. “Shut up.”

“Can’t control your temper, can you?”

“It pisses me off.” Shizuo crushes the cigarette in his hand. Izaya fails to conceal his flinch. “Izaya. I don’t fucking care about whatever god damn god complex you have, but don’t go and forget that you’re human-”

Shizuo suddenly stops at the sight of tears sliding down Izaya’s face. He’s stunned into silence, doesn’t know how to react. Shizuo has never seen Izaya cry before. “Why the hell are you... crying?”

“I don’t know.”

Izaya had never been so uneasy to see Shizuo leave.

-

Some scars take longer than others to heal.

Indeed, it feels like the physical traces of his abuse are starting to vanish one by one, cuts and bruises beginning to fade into mild discoloration on his skin. He reminds himself of this every time Shinra changes his bandages.  _ The broken bones, they’ll mend _ , Shinra would say. It’s strange hearing reassurance from him, and that much just has the informant wondering: is it that bad? 

And some days, he’s just left wondering if he’s just using this as an excuse to live an easy life.

When Izaya’s alone, he can’t stand the silence. Too many times, he has had time to himself where he had nothing to do but to think. He doesn’t want to be left alone. When he is, the memories and thoughts fester like a plague. Right when things get to be too much and he can feel that tiny prick in the corner of his eyes when he’s on the brink of tears, Izaya tells himself to breathe. Specs is gone now, corpse cold like how his hands felt around Izaya’s throat. He relaxes at the thought of never having to go through that again.

_ It’s over now. _

_ Grow a fucking pair. _

Izaya Orihara often finds that he can’t seem to stop thinking. It’s not that he’s ever really stopped thinking; since he was a kid, people would tell him that he had an active mind, that his head look as though there were always gears turning and ideas being thought out. There’ll always be something on his mind, but Izaya just doesn’t want it to be this.

-

Izaya isn’t expecting a second visit, so when he hears a few knocks on the door about a week later, he figures that it’s just Shinra coming back from work, but then he wonders why Shinra’s  _ knocking _ and not using his keys. Probably forgot them on his way out. He swipes the crutches leaning against the side of the couch and, ignoring the sharp pain shooting up his ankle as his feet touched the floor, made his way to the door and managed to open it. 

When he saw the monster towering over him, he nearly fell over. Mustering his usual smug expression, Izaya asked, “You missed me enough for a second visit?”

“Don’t get the wrong idea, flea.” Shizuo pushes past him into the room and closes the door behind him. “I had a day off.”

Izaya barks a laugh - and he’s not wheezing this time. “You must really have nothing to do if you came to see me, Shizu-chan.”

“Sorry for checking on you, then, shitty flea.” Shizuo grumbles, and takes a seat on the couch. He takes a drag off the cigarette in his hand and breathes out wisps of smoke. “I’d prefer you recover as smoothly as possible so I can beat the shit out of you sooner without feeling bad about it.”

“How considerate of you.” Izaya ripostes sarcastically. 

“At least I’m waiting for you to recover first.” 

The room falls into silence before Shizuo finally asks,

“So what happened?”

A half-hearted shrug. Izaya can feel his throat dry up and his heart race as he tries to summarize it in the most casual way possible, trying to puzzle together a sentence and find the words that would hurt the least to say, “Someone I gave information on decided to get revenge. Wife left him, loan sharks on his back all the time. His parents killed themselves from the shame. I messed him up pretty bad; basically ruined his life. You two have a lot in common in that regard.”

“Hardly.” 

“You’re right. He’s human.”

“And you love humanity.”

“That’s right.”

“Did you love him?”

Izaya’s surprised for a second. Perhaps before, he would say that he loved humanity without discrimination, without exception. Somewhere, there’s hesitation, something in the back of his mind screams,  _ no, I don’t _ . 

But then he thinks back to their last encounter. It’s strange how difficult it is for him to reply to the question. He doesn’t give the first answer he arrives at; instead, it’s like he has to ask himself first:  _ what would Izaya Orihara say? _

Shizuo’s words from their last encounter ring in his head. 

_ Something’s different _ .

He doesn’t want anything to be different; if anything, he would give it all just to rewind time. The wry smile that he musters doesn’t reach his eyes. His eyes glaze over like he’s trying concentrating on something that wasn’t quite within his field of vision; empty. Izaya finally answers, “Of course.”

“Surprising.”

Izaya’s breathing hastens. “When you saved me… Did you kill him?”

“No.” Shizuo watches him intently, gauging his reaction. “I’m not a murderer.”

He can’t mask the panic that churns his stomach and wipes the smile off his face. Somewhere out there, there are people who hate his fucking guts. Sure, he has plenty of enemies, but no one has actually acted against him. Not until now. He stares down at the scars that mar his otherwise perfect skin. The people that did this are still out there somewhere, and that fact terrifies him; just a little. “Monsters kill people.”

“I’m not a fucking monster.” Exasperated, Shizuo takes a long drag and blows it in the other’s face. Izaya tries coping with his distress by making fun of the nearest thing, finding amusement in the similarities that the sight of the gray smoke bore to comical smoke that comes out of an enraged bull’s nostrils.  _ How fitting _ . His entertainment was short-lived, cut off by the abrupt coughing that follows his swallowing of the second-hand smoke.

He rasps between coughs. “Could you not do that again?”

“What? This?” Shizuo grins and exhales, wisps of gray blowing straight in his face. The exchange starts to feel strangely casual, like they’re finally having a conversation where they aren’t at each other’s throats or on the verge of it. 

Izaya, with his polished acting ability, starts faking a wheeze. “Sh-shizu-chan… You’re really gonna kill me with that… My  _ luuungs _ \--!”

“Good.”

“Ouch.” Dropping the act, Izaya’s tone returns to normal. Half-joking, he asks, “You really hate me, huh?”

“Yep. Fuck you.”

“Love you, too.”

And somehow, he meant that more than he probably should have.

-

He sees himself in a hospital bed. 

In some twisted world, maybe he wouldn’t have a reason to stop himself from going to the hospital. Maybe in some fairy tale universe, Izaya Orihara would not have to fear for his life, mask his identity, and go AWOL to temporarily disappear off the face of this earth.

And in this fantasy world, Shizuo is with him every step of the way. Shizuo didn’t let him suffer all those weeks or glance off to the side nonchalantly when he had a gun pressed to his head ready to blow it off. Somewhere in Izaya’s fucked up head, Shizuo actually cared when he disappeared and actively sought him out and it’s probably also some alternate universe where pigs fly and the sun shines out of Izaya’s ass.

The imagination works in strange ways, and so do dreams.

He wakes with a start, almost drowning in his own sweat and tears, bruised and bloodied. Everything; his voice, his hands, they tremble. Shinra’s vacant guest bedroom greets him with a dreadful darkness and the flickering lights of the city fail to make it past drawn curtains. The digital clock on the bedside reads 2:03am.

Izaya looks to the side of the bed. He stares at the empty space like Shizuo is  _ physically _ there in the flesh; like if he swipes his hand through the air, he’ll hit something. The words come out and shatter the mind numbing silence as he mumbles out loud, “I can’t see anything that I don’t like about you anymore.”

It’s a shame that Shizuo isn’t there.

-

Some people these days can’t live without the internet.

Izaya is one of those people. Though he finds that the information he receives in the mail or from other people personally is usually much more valuable, the internet is usually a good start on what to get dirt on or who might want information. Most important, it’s a treasure trove of entertainment and amusement. There’s a whole  _ sea _ of gullible humans out there, and Izaya finds that the options and opportunities to get a good laugh are endless.

For a good while, though, he just lays there on the couch, gaze fixed on Shinra’s unoccupied desktop. That’s how he spends his days for a while - looking, but never touching. He thinks about the online chatroom he frequents. How are they doing? It’s certainly been a while, and he wonders if they noticed his absence.

Finally, getting up, he sits up onto the desk and turns on the desktop. His fingers move hesitantly as he second-guesses, looks down at his hands like he has to make sure that the keys are actually where he remembers them to be. It hasn’t been that long, but it sure feels like it.

He logs in.

 

[ **Kanra** entered the chatroom.]

[TarouTanaka] oh, kanra 

[TarouTanaka] long time no see.

[Kanra] hellooooooooo~~~~~~~~!! (ﾉ◕ヮ◕)ﾉ*:･ﾟ✧ how’s everyone doing?! >w<

[Setton] Good.

[TarouTanaka] great

 

The atmosphere of the chat is exciting, and Izaya feels relieved at the sense of normalcy he regains from it. And then all of a sudden--

 

[TarouTanaka] oh, kanra

[Kanra] yeah~? :3c

[TarouTanaka] do you know anything about a leaked sex tape?

[Setton] Oh dear. 

[TarouTanaka] i thought i heard some classmates talk about it, but i didnt get any details

[Setton] Let’s not talk about this.

[TarouTanaka] i did hear that it got posted all over social media before getting reported though

[TarouTanaka] oh okay-

 

Izaya raises his eyebrows. It’s been a while, and Celty and Shinra aren’t interested in that kind of thing at all so it’s not surprising that there’s information he doesn’t have, but the feeling of not knowing something is strange and foreign.

 

[Kanra] Σ('◉⌓◉’)!!!

[Kanra] wellllllll

[Kanra] i haven’t been keeping up with the news at all, so i’m afraid not 

 

He opens a new tab, and googles for it anyway. Maybe if he got his hands on the actual recording, it’d be some decent information people would want to pay for. He can already name a few people off the top of his head that can do that, and he shakes his head at that fact with a grin.  _ Humans. _

The search doesn’t really pull up any information that he doesn’t already have. Boring celebrity and politician scandals, the typical. He’s mildly disappointed, figuring that there would at least be  _ something _ new after he’s disappeared off the earth for a while. A few results down, a headline catches Izaya’s eye.

_ Gruesome Sex Tape Spreads on Social Media _

Ohh, this could be fun. His mouse hovers over the link and clicks on it, but it’s not what he’s looking for. He releases his grip on the mouse, feeling the remnants of his lunch begin to come up and threaten to spill out of his stomach.

_ No.  _

_ God, please, no. _

There’s a picture of him, right there. It’s the photo on his records, his driver’s license. The picture’s  _ right fucking there _ in plain sight - a collection of pixels. His profile stares at him like a mirror reflection. Izaya doesn’t know anyone else who can put on such an irritating and mocking smile, but he doesn’t want it to be him. He clenches his hands into a fist. That’s not him. That’s someone else named Izaya Orihara, who also has untamed, messy black hair and the same mischievous gleam in those boyish brown eyes, who happens to be an informant that disappeared - just like him. 

He forces himself to keep reading, to know what the press writes about him - and they write about him like another sad victim, another missing face from history. They write about how in the background, there’s a faint voice taunting him and calling him by all kinds of names; pet names and his real one. He buries his face in his hands. Voices, all of them belonging to one person, break into his mind again. The words and repressed memories come back, like one horrible long nightmare, demons bound by chains that have been broken.

_ Izaya Orihara, you fucking homo. _

He’s sure that they said his name extra loud that time for the audience.

_ Open wide, two-faced slut. _

_ Who’s a good little boy? _

He can feel the bile crawling up his throat and gets up in a hurry to the nearest toilet or sink or to anything he can puke into without making a mess. His feet crash against the ground and pain shoots up his legs, knees buckling before he can even complete a step. His legs give out as he crumbles to the ground like frail, old pastries and vomits on the ground. A sour taste makes its home in his mouth, and the chunks pool on the tile. Funnily enough, it just makes him feel more sick; reminds him of the times when they made Izaya clean up the mess his getting tortured created.  _ Wow, Izaya, how  _ **_dare_ ** _ you let yourself bleed all over the goddamn carpet when you get cut?  _

Izaya’s face is inches from the floor, he can smell his regurgitated lunch, and someone made a fucking ( _ no pun intended, _ the sadistic voice in the back of his mind chimes in oh-so-helpfully) sex tape out of his suffering. He falls to the side of the puddle and curls up like some pathetic, wounded child, and oddly enough, all he’s doing is wondering how Shizuo would react to this. Would he laugh at him? Would he stomp on him just like the rest? 

The room feels spacious. There’s nothing filling it. Izaya wants something to happen; anything. Anything that will take his mind off this mess because misery has never tasted so bitter and his future had never seemed so bleak. All he can do is sit there rolled up uselessly and just wonder how he can ever show up in public without getting pitiful looks and fingers pointed at him or seeing people stare and whisper:  _ see, that’s him. Some asshole who got what was coming to him. Make sure you don’t end up like that. _

Or worse:

_ That victim; he was never the same. How sad.  _

Faintly, coming from the front door, Izaya hears three sharp knocks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sike lmao


	4. unexpected redemption

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Shizuo rediscovers his burning hatred for Izaya through a series of particularly grating episodes of unsolicited clinginess.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> no angst here, no sir.

After the first three knocks; an uttered string of curses and ruffling before the familiar jingle of keys. The lock shakes a little before the door jolts right open. Shinra steps through the entrance and tosses his bag and first aid kit off to the side carelessly, retiring to the couch and throwing himself on it after a long day of work. His arm reaches for the TV remote and he switches the television on. For a moment, it’s just Shinra, himself, and the background noise of the daily news. He relishes in the calm and peace for a solid minute. The question of Izaya’s whereabouts crosses his mind for a passing moment, but nothing more than that. Maybe he’s just taking a shit.

An hour later, and there’s still nothing.

He gets up in spite of the nagging voice telling him to continue lazily lounging on the couch. “Hey, Izaya, where you at?”

Shinra waits for a reply but receives nothing but radio silence. Exasperated, the underground doctor pinches the bridge of his nose between his fingers, and starts looking through the house.

First, the kitchen - nothing.

Then, he goes down the hallway to his room where the computer is. The door is ajar, and he pushes it open inquisitively. The putrid stench of bile hits him full force; it’s enough to churn his stomach, but it’s hardly the worst thing (and far from the most shocking) thing in that room. Right there, on the floor, lies a shaking and sweaty mess. A trembling head of raven hair, slick like tar and black as singed coals. His knees are pulled up to his chest like he’s trying to hide, mouth hanging open as though screaming _don’t hurt me like this anymore, please_ ; hands up to his ears to block out voices that Shinra can’t quite hear, but they’re shaking too much to actually tune anything out. The room is soundless, save for the husk of a body’s shuddery, heavy breathing. A glass figure - fragile; shattered with the most delicate of touches, though not so mesmerizing as disturbing. The bile starts pooling up on the carpet, and somehow all Shinra can think about is how much of a pain in the ass it’s gonna be to clean it up later.

The glow of his desktop screen grabs Shinra’s attention. Pulled up on it is a news article, and from such a distance, he can only read the headline.

_Gruesome Sex Tape Spreads on Social Media_

Ah.

He turns around and shuts the door behind him, leaving Izaya to cope by himself. Celty had always been better than him with those sorts of matters anyway. She has empathy, he doesn’t. Makes him wonder who the real monster is between Celty and him.

Walking to the living room, Shinra pulls out his phone from the pocket of his lab coat and texts Celty. _When are you coming home?_

The reply comes after about two minutes. _Won’t be home for another few hours. Why?_

_Izaya’s having a little accident._

_You’re the doctor here._

_My dad never taught me how to fix a fractured ego._

_Is it important?_

_Not really lmao._

It isn’t like Izaya’s dying or anything. Sure, he’s not exactly the dictionary definition of perfectly fine, but as far as Shinra can tell, he’s not going to die. Not physically anyway, but then again, Izaya Orihara always needed to be knocked down a peg with that filthy god complex. Izaya Orihara is human, just like the rest of them, and Shinra can’t help but feel as though that’s an overdue lesson or perhaps maybe even karma; not to say that anyone deserves such a beating or bruising.

Exiting out of his text conversation with Celty, the doctor presses on the call app and dials in Shizuo’s number. As much as Shizuo hates Izaya, Shinra’s sure that he can handle this better. A few seconds elapse before there’s a click.

“Hello?” Shizuo’s voice comes from the speaker.

“Shizuo.”

“Yeah, Shinra?”

“Can you come over?”

After a moment of hesitation, “Just got off work, so yeah. Why?”

“You’ll see. It’s urgent, so please do hurry.” Shinra can’t help but chuckle at the disgruntled grumbling coming from Shizuo’s end before he hangs up.

-

Shizuo had never exactly heard Shinra call something _urgent_. That in and of itself is worrying enough.

He’s not exactly in a rush, but _damn, could the cab driver not be such a wuss about passing up the speed limit?_ He’s also certainly taking his time when he threatens to “punch the fucking lights” out of the next jay walker, and when he power walks (not runs) to Shinra’s front door. The drive from Russia Sushi to Shinra’s house usually takes about half an hour, but he’s at the doc’s front door knocking within fifteen minutes flat. Shinra looks almost delighted when he opens the door.

“Shizuo!” comes his usual (almost obnoxious) cheerful greeting. “Come in.”

The tall man enters the property mumbling crass, filthy words under his breath and then turns to Shinra. “So what’s the emergency?”

“Follow me.” His friend’s expression darkens, cold and grim. He leads Shizuo down the hallway and stops at one of the doors, but doesn’t open it quite yet. As they walk, he explains, “Called you because I don’t have the sympathy or the emotional capacity for this.”

Shizuo has his moments where brawn triumphs over brain but he isn’t an idiot, or at least not enough of one that he can’t put two and two together. Eyes narrowed to slits behind his shades, he inquires almost accusingly, “Is this about Izaya?”

Shinra’s silence is enough of an answer.

“You know I can’t fucking stand that flea.” Shizuo turns around with a hostile growl; pinches the bridge of his nose between two twitching fingers, “Forget it. He hates my god damn guts and the feeling is mutual.”

“Shizuo, can you put aside your petty little feud for a second and…” A careful pause, “evaluate the situation before coming to conclusions?”

“The shithead almost got me in jail and tried to ruin my life. I don’t owe him anything.”

“Fine. If you hate Izaya that much, consider this a favor for me then.” Shinra fingers close on the door knob. “I can’t just let him freeload here forever but I’d feel bad kicking a broken man out of my home.”

“Broken?” The ex-bartender snorts, “You boot him out and I bet he’ll just be plaguing the streets the next morning ruining some other stranger’s life. Only thing that’s gonna be broken is those poor souls that get involved with h-”

“That’s not true and you know it.”

“The hell do you mean? He’s been doing that for the past twenty fucking years.”

Shinra sighs, “Alright, you go see what’s in this room, look me in the eyes, and tell me he’s going to be alright if we let him be.”

“Well, gee, who’s more cut out for this empathy shit now?” Shizuo drawls sarcastically and pushes past Shinra into the room.

Fifteen minutes later and not much has changed about the place since Shinra’s call, except now Izaya isn’t bathing in his own puke; he’s moved from the floor to the farthest corner of the room.

Shizuo’s favorite informant is (much to his own chagrin) alive and breathing, at the very least, but there’s something about him that’s dead. Maybe it’s the way he has his knees curled up to his chest, arms limp at his sides, head tilted back against the wall and eyes closed. Perhaps such a spectacle would’ve seemed peaceful to an outsider, but to Shizuo it’s more haunting than anything. He gathers that he likes Izaya better energetic and running away than stationary and pathetic like this. Even from across the room, Shizuo can hear the labor behind every breath, the excessive effort put behind it like it’s the only thing Izaya can do to stop himself from screaming.

And after all that, past the disgusting stench of vomit and sweat, past the disturbing sight of his nemesis trembling and curled up in a corner, the only words Shizuo can muster are: “What the hell happened?”

“That’s for me to know and you to find out.” Shinra chirps as he leaves the room.

It fucking reeks. He wishes that Shinra at least gave the room a few sprays of Febreeze before making him come in.

He turns his attention back to the slumped Izaya and crouches by him. Shizuo puts a hand on Izaya’s shoulder, starting to shake it a little to snap him out of whatever crazy daze he’s in.

“Don’t touch me.” The informant’s eyes shoot open at the touch, wild and unstable. Izaya’s hand reflexively shoots up to aggressively swat him away.

“Good morning to you, too.” Shizuo sneers, drawing his hand back.

“Oh, it’s you.” Izaya’s shoulders relax as he heaves out a sigh, voice weary and tired. “What are you doing here?”

“Shinra called me over. What’s wrong?”

He raises an eyebrow as if to ask back: _what isn’t?_ but after what seems to be heavy contemplation, he finally replies blankly, “Nothing.”

“Bullshit.” Shizuo spits out. “If you’re gonna lie to my fucking face, at least make it convincing.”

It’s just for a second, but Izaya’s flinch doesn’t escape Shizuo’s eyes. He looks up and holds his gaze, cold and steely - _oddly steady,_ Shizuo can’t help but notice - as his eyebrows knit together in thought. A small smile spreads across his features, forced and sad. “That’s my answer: nothing. If you don’t like it, what do you want me to say instead?”

“I want you to be honest with me.”

“You wouldn’t understand.”

Izaya doesn’t say it, but Shizuo can understand the underlying meaning behind the words.

( _You’re a monster_ , _you shouldn’t.)_

“Try me,” he challenges anyway.

Izaya stops for a second. “No.”

“I can’t help you if you don’t let me.”

“Maybe I don’t need help.”

The bodyguard raises an eyebrow.

“Maybe I don’t _want_ it.” Izaya spits, cold and acidic. His lips forcibly curl; a sad imitation of his usual mischievous smirk. “Since when were you so emotionally invested in my wellbeing? What happened to caving my skull in with a vending machine?”

Shizuo flinches back, feels mixed emotions he can’t quite give a name. Is it surprise or hurt? A mix of both? Some kind of unsettled. He says the first words that come to mind. “Fuck you.”

Izaya doesn’t know what he was expecting.

“God forbid someone actually cares about you, Izaya.” The blond starts storming out the door, turns his head as his hand rests on the door and he’s already ready to leave. “Sorry for giving a shit. You wanna be on your own? Fine.”

“Fine.” Izaya replies callously, but not before Shizuo’s already long gone. Not before the door slams shut with an ear-splitting boom, chips of wood splintering off with the sheer force.

_Some things are better left forgotten anyway._

Because Izaya doesn’t have another way to deal with the pain.

-

“For you.”

Shinra slides a cardboard box over dining the table to him the next day at dinner. Izaya takes it in his hands and opens the box to see a phone with a piece of folded up paper on it. He opens up the paper and sees a 10-digit number.

“For me?” He questions.

“Yeah. Since you don’t have one anymore. It’s the least I could do.”

A stunned look makes its way to his face, eyebrows raised and eyes wide. After a long period of silence, “Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.” Shinra watches him toy around with the flip phone as though gauging his reaction.

“Hey.”

“Hm?”

“You got Shizu-chan’s number?” He thinks about the way things left off.

An amused smile spreads across the doctor’s face. “Yeah.”

-

(2:39pm) Hellooo!

(2:39pm) _who the fuck are you_

(2:40pm) Oh, c’mon, Shizu-chan~

(2:40pm) GUESS >:3c

(2:41pm) _damn flea_

(2:41pm) _how did you get my number_

(2:41pm) Shinra gave me it wwwww

(2:44pm) I overheard your call with Shinra

(2:45pm) Why so angry, Shizu-chan? :)

(2:46pm) _im blocking your number_

(2:46pm) Whaaat?! Nooo ._.

(2:55pm) Shizu-chan??

(4:19pm) HELLOOOOOOOOOOO

-

 _Incoming call from_ **_fucking flea_ **

Shizuo gives his phone screen a blank stare. Just when he starts to forget about Izaya Orihara, he comes back like an annoying rash. His finger hovers over the decline button for just a moment, then accepts it with a sigh as he brings the flip phone up to his ear. “Hello?”

“Shizu-chan!”

“What do you want?” He’s five seconds away from hanging up.

A nervous chuckle comes from the other end of the line. “Are you mad at me?”

“For what?”

“For… never mind.” A few seconds before Shizuo remembers.

“Oh.” He sighs; gives a thoughtful pause before finally saying. “I don’t know what the hell is going on with you, but it’s none of my business. You don’t have to tell me shit.”

Awkward silence.

“Is that all?”

“No.”

“What else?”

“Don’t know.”

“... Are you just wasting my time on purpose?”

“No.”

“Then what the hell’s on your mind?”

A huff comes from the other line before Izaya’s voice chirps, playful and amused. “It’s just that I never thought we’d be able to talk on the phone like this.”

“Like this?”

“Y’know. I’m not making you mad, you’re not at my throat - well, I guess you physically can’t be anyway since we’re on the phone, but I’m sure you would’ve found a way.” The informant laughs. There’s an uncharacteristic friendliness to it instead of the usual mocking and irksome cackle. “It’s… a nice change of pace.”

Shizuo has no idea what to reply with and ends up nodding instead of saying something. The conversation feels like some kind of fucked up dream because he’s never thought about the day where he and Izaya would hold a civilized conversation that would amount to any sentimental value. Fuck, why are ‘sentimental’ and ‘Izaya’ even in the same sentence?

Some seconds of pure silence elapse before Izaya asks, as though unsure, “Shizu-chan?”

Fuck.

“Oh. Yeah. Uh... see ya later.” Shizuo replies distantly before he hangs up, shoves the phone in his pockets, and massages his temples with his fingers out of possible dismay, embarrassment, bewilderment, or perhaps a strange mix of all three. What he does know for sure is that picking up Izaya’s call was a bad move because the last thing he wants is emotional uncertainty.

 

Shizuo’s kind of an idiot.

(“Kind of” being a massive understatement.)

Maybe that’s why he’s bound to repeat his mistakes.

The clock at his bedside table reads 3am when his phone starts buzzing and he tries ignoring it for a solid ten seconds before relenting and rolling over to see who the hell is calling him in the middle of the fucking night.

 _Incoming call from_ **_fucking flea_ **

FUCK.

The curse rings so distinctly in his head that he can almost physically see it - a red, angry, bolded, italicized, and underlined. Eyes narrowed to slits, he just stares at the ringing device trying to decide whether or not he wanted to pick up. _We decided to sing songs and hold hands 12 hours ago, but if this fuckhead woke me up for a dumb reason I’m going to-_

The phone clicks as Shizuo accepts the call, words coming out brash and angry. “Hello?”

His greeting comes out passive aggressive, except without the passive, though he finds his anger to be short-lived; killed off by words slurred almost to the point of incoherence and the dull thud of glass against wood. “Ineed  a ride home. Too many drinks.”

“Are you fucking kidding me?”

“Nooo.”

“No.”

“Yeah, that’s what I said.”

“No. I mean, no I’m not picking you up. Get Shinra to do it.”  
“Shinra can’t pick me up if he’s already here.” Izaya starts obnoxiously giggling and Shizuo wants to punch his face in.

“Where the hell are you?”

“Shinra’s house.”

“I’m going to kill you.”

“Yeah, come over. Do it, Shizu-chan.”

“You fucking crazy? Do you know what time it is?”

“ _Pleaaaaase._ ” Izaya’s voice drops low, a few giggles escaping his lips. He drawls sarcastically, “I’ll love you forever and _ever_. Isn’t that what you want?”

“ _Touching_ ,” Shizuo seethes, “but no. Goodbye.”

“C’mo-”

The line gets cut off before the informant even has a chance of finishing his sentence.

(3:26am) hello

(3:26am) is it me ure looking for

(3:26am) _Fuck off, I’m trying to sleep._

(3:26am) but ily

(3:27am) _Die._

(3:27am) SHIZU-CHAN

(3:27am) YOU WOUND ME

_Read, 3:28am._

Izaya wakes up wanting to die more than ever.

-

It’s been a month and Izaya is still leeching off of Shinra’s resources.

“Are you ever going to leave this house?” The question comes up over a cup of morning coffee.

“Probably. When I’m all better.” Izaya replies cryptically. Truth be told, he hasn’t given the idea much thought; kind of hard to think about the future when it feels like you don’t have one. It’s been far too long since he’s seen the world outside of Shinra’s walls, and when he remembers what happened the last time he’s had fresh air, Izaya feels like he’s better off without it anyway.

“All of your wounds are better. You’re stable.” The doctor reasons.

“Thanks to you. Any chance you could give me a new face while you’re at it?”

Shinra smiles at him, eyes bright with irritatingly condescending amusement. Is this how he makes Shizuo feel? “You find shame in being the legendary Izaya Orihara?”

“It’s a joke, Shinra.” It’s not.

“Mhm. Well, I don’t want to keep you for too long. Be free.”

Freedom has never been so terrifying.

“Alright, I’ll pack my things.”

“What things?”

“Thanks for the reminder that I have nothing but cash and the clothes on my back,” Shinra cracks a smile at this remark. “asshole.”

“I’ll just pretend I didn’t hear anything after ‘thanks.’”

-

“Alright, that’s the last of that guy’s debt.” Shizuo's never been more relieved to hear that from Tom as they walk back from a particularly stubborn client. Long story short, Shizuo's knuckles are beginning to swell an amalgamation of blues and purples and he just put someone through a wall that said person definitely doesn't have the money to fix. At least not anymore. 

“Good.” Shizuo mumbles as he lights a cigarette, “Motherfucker put up a fight every time we visited. Glad that we’re never seeing him again.”

“Don’t jinx it,” his boss warns. Meanwhile, Shizuo’s phone buzzes twice in his pocket.

(11:10am) shizu-chan!

(11:10am) let me move in with you


End file.
